


Have you ever kissed someone?

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, But perhaps Sherlock isn't that clueless after all, Clueless Sherlock, Denial of Feelings, Drunkenness, Loneliness, M/M, Pining, Secret Crush, supressed feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21531565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Lestrade likes to think that he has a realistic look on life. But sometimes he just wishes that there was room for the unexpected to occur.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Kudos: 35





	Have you ever kissed someone?

“Have you ever kissed someone?”

Sherlock cocks his eyebrow at him, annoyance flaring up for a second, but soon replaced by confusion instead.

“What kind of an Exeter enquiry is that?”

Whenever Lestrade says anything that in Sherlock’s book is beneath human intelligence or bordering on crude, petty or tacky, he has a tendency to connect it to Lestrade’s origin, in this case Exeter, as if that whole area for some reason is harbouring an unusual number of imbeciles.  
Once, when he had asked Sherlock about it, the other man had denied thinking anything of the kind.

“If there ever existed such a place, it would be where Anderson was born. Luton, more specifically. But in general, I don’t tend to denounce whole areas as being specifically weighed-down by idiots.”

Lestrade is decidedly worn tonight, and more than just a little affected by the combination of beer and whiskey he has indulged in, while trying to shake the last vestiges of the case they have wrapped up a few hours earlier. 

He is reclining in his chair behind his desk, the first two buttons on his shirt open and his tie loosened up. In front of him an impressive pile of paperwork is doing its best to maintain its balance without toppling over and like every other time this happens, he marvels over how this can even be possible considering how the Yard strives to be a more environmental workplace, in which the reduction of actual paper should be on the top of the list of improvements. And yet it seems like these piles never grow smaller. 

Or perhaps they don’t because Sherlock’s involved and everything to do with him tends to become larger than life and cost Lestrade even more greying hairs on his head. Not that he is complaining. Much. 

Two hours ago, he dropped by the pub a few streets further away with the others, his _actual_ colleagues, those who will get a pay check by the end of the month for the work that they do (or don’t do, depending on who you ask). 

Sherlock had left long before that, more or less after the case was solved and Lestrade didn’t really expect to see him again, not until the next case came along. 

Therefor it was quite the surprise to notice the familiar figure lining his doorway shortly after his return back to the Yard, just as he had poured himself a whiskey from the bottle he keeps hidden in one of the drawers next to his desk. This drawer is usually locked so as not to flaunt its existence, even if he knows it isn’t exactly forbidden to keep liquor at the office. Plenty are the men as well as women who enjoy the occasional glass after a stressful day, most of them not even alcoholics, just struggling to cope with the highs and lows of their chosen occupation. 

Sherlock has deduced its existence ages ago, so even if Lestrade initially freezes, the glass half-way to his mouth when his eyes fall on the consulting detective standing in his doorway, he takes the intended mouthful of whiskey before scrunching his features together from the burning sensation that trickles down his throat. 

The beer and the nerves of the finished case still raw and tingling in his body, makes him bolder, more prone to follow instinct than he usually does. 

Hence the question about the kiss.

How he even came up with such an enquiry is pure chance. Three beers and half a glass of whiskey combined with his fatigue as well as the perceived heat in the room, apparently does things to his inhibitions. And when Sherlock, who has returned because his flat is currently occupied by the British Government, plunks down in the visitor’s chair opposite Lestrade to pester him about moving on with the paper work so they can pick up the next case, Lestrade, after staring at Sherlock’s plump lips moving for a full minute, suddenly blurts out what his brain is currently thinking. 

Apparently, alcohol causes your mouth to speak out what should remain only inside your own head. He’ll try to remember that the next time he ends up face to face with Sherlock while under influence.

“Have you?” he insists, when Sherlock doesn’t answer the question that now hangs heavily between them. If it’s already out there, he might as well insist on an answer.

Sherlock purses his lips as if in annoyance, but his eyes tell Lestrade that he is slightly confused.

“ _Yes_. I have kissed someone. More than one actually. Not that it is any of your business.”

Lestrade can’t help but let out a giggle when hearing this. Mr “Straight forward, tell it like it is, to everyone, all the time”, doesn’t like the tables being turned apparently. Suddenly, those kinds of things are very private and hush hush, despite Sherlock not having any aversion to exposing such information about others. 

At the same time Lestrade can’t help but wonder what kissing Sherlock would feel like. 

He can sense sweat begin to trickle down his neck and lifts his hand to the back to wipe it off, while continuing to stare at Sherlock. It is decidedly stuffy in here.

He really should put his glass away and do as Sherlock says, get on with his work. His superior will want at least a semblance of a report by nine o’clock tomorrow. He is nowhere ready to accomplish anything like that, but as the one in charge of the investigation, he doesn’t have much choice. 

The problem is that a huge distraction is still occupying the chair opposite him, ironically just like Mycroft Holmes is currently doing in Sherlock’s own flat in another part of town, in vain waiting for something that is not going to happen tonight. Granted, Lestrade has no idea what Sherlock’s older brother might want, but knowing Sherlock and Mycroft’s strained relationship, he guesses that whatever it is, he isn’t going to get it. Just like Sherlock isn’t going to get his hands on a new case tonight. And Lestrade won’t get....

He vehemently shakes his head to stop that thought from solidifying inside his head. 

Even if he knows Sherlock isn’t actually a mind reader (probably not), he doesn’t want to risk the younger man seeing something in his eyes that will give him away. Not that there is much to see. He has always been very careful of that. 

Probably too much alcohol and too little sleep for the past couple of days has resulted in deeply hidden feelings to surface, despite his best efforts, even now, to keep them safely compartmentalized in the farthest corner of his mind, between the remnants of his failed marriage and the guilt over not visiting his parents often enough. 

Those are all subjects he usually keeps tucked away where they are difficult to reach, but now it seems at least one of them has made a run for it and presses up to the very front of his mind. Shaking his head doesn’t manage anything more than making him feel dizzy, and seconds later, ready to vomit. 

By pressing his hand against his mouth, pretending to discreetly cough, he manages to get that sensation under control at least.

Despite Lestrade’s obvious discomfort, Sherlock doesn’t seem inclined to budge anytime soon. 

In fact, he has put his feet up on the desk, next to the dangerously wobbly pile of papers, and has turned his dissecting eyes on the man in front of him, as if by staring at him will magically earn him what he came for.

Lestrade can’t help but think about Sherlock’s affirmative answer regarding kissing someone. Or as he put it: “More than one in fact”. 

He wonders who the lucky bastard was. Some plummy friend from school? Someone he met on the streets? Perhaps case related? Man? Woman?

He is really temped to know while simultaneously not wishing to touch on the subject any further, unless he risks stirring things up that he has no intentions of awakening. 

He at least decides that it is probably not someone who is currently enjoying the specific privilege of kissing Sherlock Holmes. He has heard nothing about Sherlock seeing anyone or being even remotely interested in anything regarding intimacy or relationships. If he had, Lestrade might have considered his own options more carefully. 

He sighs and makes a huge effort to pull himself together. 

The sooner he finishes here, the faster he can take a cab home and crash on the sofa in front of the telly. Perhaps order some chips from that kiosk by the corner that does home deliveries. End the evening on a relatively high note. Nothing wrong with some good telly, warm food in his belly and the comfy couch to fall asleep on if he can’t be bothered to make it to the bed. Being on your own isn’t all that crappy that others tend to turn it into.

But to be able to finish here also means he has to get rid of Sherlock.

Therefore, he crosses his hands in front of him on the desk and looks at the younger man with his most patient face. The trick is to prove to Sherlock that nothing exciting is about to happen here, just regular paperwork, otherwise, he’ll never leave.

“What is it that you actually want, Sherlock? I have no new case that I can just magically pull out from a hat. If you’re really hankering for something to do, I suggest you go searching for Hopkins, Jones or Dimmock, although at this hour I wouldn’t bet on any of them still being here.”

Sherlock unfortunately isn’t ready to budge.

“I already told you, I can’t go home and it’s raining outside. Not too many other choices.”

“So I’m your last chance, am I?” Lestrade sighs as he realises that nothing regarding Sherlock can ever run smoothly. “Why can’t you just tell your brother to go home? God knows you’re the expert in making people run for the hills most of the time.”

“What works on others doesn’t work on him. Besides, I don’t know what it is that he wants, I never actually met him. I never entered the flat.”

Now it’s Lestrades turn to raise his eyebrows, but he imagines that he doesn’t manage to pull off the same suave expression that Sherlock does when making the same gesture.

“What do you mean? How the hell do you even know he’s sitting there waiting for you if you actually never went inside?”

“I smelt his cologne in the hallway and turned immediately.”

“Jesus...”

“Not even close.”

Lestrade empties his glass in exasperation and feel the alcohol go straight to his head. As if it wasn’t already positively simmering up there. 

He knows that the longer Sherlock stays here, the more he risks exposing what he has very carefully been shoving away from his thoughts during this whole evening. For longer than that actually. 

He can’t risk it after all, Sherlock isn’t the kind of person who would ever contemplate anything more than work when it comes to their relationship.  
Lestrade wouldn’t go so far as to say that he is simply the means to an end, even if he sometimes feels like Sherlock’s main interest in him is his access to casework. But he certainly isn’t stupid enough to think that someone like Sherlock Holmes would be interested in pursuing a sexual relationship with a copper like him, far too old, a failed marriage under his belt and a bit worn around the edges, not even remotely on the same level, neither regarding intelligence nor looks. 

Besides, there would be a conflict of interest considering that they work together. It already looks a bit shady that he uses Sherlock’s help as often as he does. To also be shagging him, that would simply be too much to swallow for the rest of the team. 

He can positively hear the indignation in their voices, especially Anderson and Donovan, they would blow a casket if they found out. 

Their boss having it off with the consultant! The same consultant that constantly insults all of them and treats Scotland Yard like his own personal playground. Donovan would probably resign, just out of pure spite if she knew what Lestrade thinks about Sherlock when he is alone, wanking in the shower, fantasising about those lips wrapped around his cock. 

He feels an uncomfortable strain in his pants and just about manages to stop his hand from going there to ease the pressure a little bit. Sherlock is after all still in the room. And he hasn’t been drinking himself halfway to a stupor, so he is still very much as observant as he always is.

Perhaps that ought to be remedied.

Lestrade bends down a little and whisks out a second glass from the drawer, putting it on the table and begins to pour. Half a glass to begin with, as he doesn’t want to waste it if Sherlock should decline his offer. Without asking, he then pushes the glass across the desk.

“If you’re going to stay, you might as well catch up with the current mood,” he says and actually winks, although he can’t explain why he did that. He doesn’t even wink when he is trying to pull at the local pub. Or used to pull, more correctly. He hasn’t made any serious efforts in ages. Not since...

Another thought that doesn’t deserve an ending.

Sherlock looks at the offered glass with something lingering on contempt, a twitch of his nose happening, but then he evidently decides that he has nothing better to do and takes the glass and raises it to his lips. 

A careful sip and then a grimace.

“Who decided to give you this rat poison?” he says and puts the glass down with a rejecting clunk on the desk.

“No one. I bought it.”

“Whatever for? It tastes awful. Whatever you paid for it, you were robbed.”

“Alright, alright, little miss Prim. We can’t all have expensive vintage whiskey from our ancestor’s own distillery lying about. This does what it’s supposed to do, and that is good enough for me.”

“Clearly. If what you’re looking for is to slur while trying to keep your hands from correcting your erect penis from pressing uncomfortably against your trousers while your breath is doing its best to challenge the odour from the beverage by becoming even more repugnant on its own. If that is your aim, then I can happily announce that the whiskey has indeed fulfilled its needs.”

Greg snorts at this until his brain catches up with that first part of the sentence and he falls quiet, his cheeks going hot. Luckily the lighting in the room is poor at the moment, if he actually blushes, it’s too dark to tell, even for Hawk-eye sitting across from him. 

“You know, I really need to get started on these,” he says and makes a vague gesture towards the pile.

“I’m not stopping you,” Sherlock replies airily. In his world he probably believes it himself. 

“You always were bad at taking a hint,” Lestrade mumbles, while reaching for Sherlock’s discarded glass, downing it in one go. Might as well finish this evening off with a bang. He’s going to regret it in the morning, but there are plenty of hours left until that occurs. And plenty of regrets to last him a lifetime. 

Sherlock gives him one of his patented x-ray stares, but for once doesn’t say anything. 

That’s a first. 

Lestrade feels his head beginning to spin once more, he is going to need to lay down soon enough and preferably not here. 

He just needs to get rid of temptation first, unless he really is going to regret things in the morning. There are far more embarrassing subjects to fret about than a few too many drinks and a semi-erect penis, but he does not want to find out what they are.

To his utter relief, Sherlock for once in his habitual obliviousness to other people’s needs, either finally gets the hint that Lestrade has things to do, or he just decides that this, sitting in front of a middle-aged drunk man with too much paperwork and only bad whiskey to offer, is even more boring than going home to face his brother. 

Without a word Sherlock rises from his chair and pulls his coat tighter around himself. 

He looks haughty and impressive and utterly dashing as always and Lestrade wonders, for the umptieth time how someone with no real job or income to speak of, no social skills, poor eating and sleeping habits, living in a ratty flat that’s always messier than the worse teenage den, still manages to ooze this kind of confidence, posses every room he enters. It strictly speaking shouldn’t be possible. 

Or maybe Lestrade is simply the only one who’s fallen for the ruse.

“Call me when you snap out of it, Lestrade,” Sherlock says without looking at him, before he turns on his heel and stalks out of the office, naturally leaving the door open in his wake. Trust Sherlock to not bother with closing any doors when there are others who can do it for him.

With a sigh Lestrade scrubs his face wearily with both his hands, pressing his fingertips tiredly against his closed eyes in attempt to stave off the incoming headache. 

He ignores the instinct to adjust the situation in his trousers. He knows it will wear itself off eventually, it always does, especially now that the cause for it is removed from his presence. 

Nothing left but himself, the half-empty bottle and the work.

He just wishes there could be more to it than that sometimes.

Lestrade wants something else. He isn’t absolutely sure why, but he knows that he does, has been wanting it for a long time. Badly.

But he has also come to the conclusion that you can’t always get what you want and that things don’t end up like they do in those sappy romantic comedies his former wife used to enjoy watching on the telly. 

He never could stomach those, too silly for his taste, never even an ounce of realism in the plot. Sherlock would probably dismiss them as well, with a curt wave of hand and an eye-roll. He isn’t wrong, they have nothing to do with real life.

And yet Lestrade sometimes wishes that things wouldn’t always be so bloody realistic.


End file.
